There comes a point in every creation, be it a novel, a play, or even a biography, when the editing comes to end. But there is this niggling feeling something is not finished. You start to fuss with words here and there, double-check for those naughty errant commas, and finally type—The End.
After the shout of, I’ve finished! It’s done, I’ve written my novel, an odd sadness steps in. We are in mourning and not keenly aware of it. There is suddenly a weird cloud of despondency. We don’t want to say goodbye.
We’ve spent months, even years with our characters. We know what they eat for breakfast even if the reader doesn’t. We slept with them and argued with them in our dreams. We’ve looked at the world through their eyes and suddenly they are gone. They have nothing more to say to us. There is silence. The novel is indeed finished.
It is an odd revelation when we finally realised they are finished with us. We move on to the next step and send them out into the world to readers who will now own them. We let go and slowly a new character steps in.
It is a woman this time and she is bursting with eagerness to tell you everything. You drink a cup of coffee and she is chattering in your ear. You go to sleep and instead of your dreams, she is revealing her inner thoughts to you, and before you know it, you are in her world, her life…that is until it is time to once again say goodbye.